


When it rains, it pours

by fowo



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4066792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowo/pseuds/fowo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crocodile reminiscing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When it rains, it pours

**Author's Note:**

> 1300 words about Crocodile. This one is unbeta'd, sorry for that. I hope you enjoy!

When it rains, it pours.

The last thing he really remembered was the rain on his face. How he hated rain, he thought, looking up at the sky. Only a few hours earlier everything seemed to go according to plan. And now, after four years of planning, everything got washed down the drain.

How he hated rain.

The marines came and he didn't put up a fight when he was carried away. He registered Smoker got the credit for his capture, and for the last time in a long time, he cracked a smile. Then a laugh broke from his lips, coming from deep down in his guts, washing out the disgust he felt, and the bitterness, and the hate, and the disappointment. The Government right at work. What a corrupt world.

He decided his time was over then. There had been a dream once, a long, long time ago. A selfish, naive, youth-driven wish for what they called romance. The quest that followed this dream turned into more of a nightmare. It brought loss and failure and scars. The memory of blood in his mouth, and no matter how expensive the cigars he smoked were, how much he basked in the tingling feeling of luxury they brought upon him, they could never dull the taste of iron on his lips.

It was one failure too much, he thought, rain dripping from his hair and his coat. It washed away the blood; his own, the brat's. It washed away the grains of sand on his body. It drained the very essence of his being. What was left when the rain stopped was not the Shichibukai Sir Crocodile.

Well, they stripped him off that title, anyway.

He hardly minded the dullness that followed his arrest. Days went by, then weeks, then months.

The first emotion after a long while was mild surprise, when little Miss Goldenweek of all people wanted to bust him out. He refused with a shrug and a crooked smile. He enjoyed the cigar she handed him, though, taking a deep drag and staring at the blue sky where Mr 5's explosion burst open the ceiling. He hadn't seen the sky in so long.

Mr 1 was silent at his side. He enjoyed the quiet company. He felt so calm. Something had changed within him since his arrest. He had always been so eager; first driven by his foolish dream, then by his anger. Now there was nothing left but an eerie calmness.

He sighed at the ruckus the marines made when they finally caught up. He found it to be more bothersome than anything else. The others were long gone. He finished his cigar and stood up and drowned again in the draining numbness of Seastone cuffs.

Six levels of hell followed, and he was too apathetic to even raise an eyebrow.

Then darkness.

Utter darkness.

...

Finally, there was a light. A flickering flame, small, but wild, glowing blue with heat. It bore the face of a young man, wavy black hair that fell into his face, garnished with freckles. His presence brought news, and Crocodile felt his chest heave with the intake of breath. Air filled his lungs and his hollow shell, his heart pumped blood into his veins. Life into what had been drained. Finally, there were emotions again. Feelings. Willpower, desire. Need.

The brat arrived too late for his goals, but just in time for Crocodile.

What was their history to him? He had already lost all he had ever gained. He could pretend he had regained his dignity, but he knew it wasn't true.

Freedom came with a compromise. He realized there was nothing he could do about it, and gritting his teeth, he accepted his fate. He realized that a few months—ages—ago, he would have rather died than live with this. He would have taken all of their heads, and died doing it if he had to.

But, this he also realized, that was then, and this was now. He was another man now. 

Regardless, not just once during the war did he question his actions, and so far he hadn't come up with an answer. He talked to people he didn't care about, he worked together with people he didn't even know. Hell, he worked together with people. Even without admitting to it to the avian flu that just kept making advances, he knew it was true. He saved the damned brat a multitude of times. He scowled at his childish bashfulness, but there was something about the kid's determination that made his chest ache with a dull feeling he hadn't known before, or forgotten.

Was it pain, or something else?

He didn't get to take Whitebeard's head. If he was honest with himself, he hadn't expected himself to in the first place. No. The desire was true enough, but he had long since learned his place, put there when he had been so much younger. Something about that made him feel relieved. He found himself grieving the old man's death for a while, thinking him dying depraved himself of all reason to live.

But he lived anyway.

He had suffered wounds that would heal to become new scars. His heart was beating in his chest again, and each inhale brought air and life. Suddenly, he liked the taste of his cigars again, after it had been nothing but a nasty habit to succumb to against the boredom that ate at him. The first inhale brought so many flavors it nearly overwhelmed him.

He liked the texture of expensive clothes again, spending time in shops and talking to tailors, dressing up nicely in silk and fur and Alabastan cotton. Because he liked it, not because it was expected of him. The colors were duller, yes, but he didn't feel the need to compensate for anything anymore. He paid for what he bought, not living on the charity of others anymore. The money was still stolen, of course, but it still felt better than living off King Cobra's expenses ever had.  
The reflection of light in the faceted jewels of his rings brought him joy. Oh how he had missed them. It wasn't the same set, but maybe that was for the better, too.

He looked over the pages of his newspaper at Daz, sitting with him in silence on a bench at the port as he smoked and read. He tossed the newspaper into a nearby trashcan and got to his feet. He stretched. Somewhere, a bone cracked. Just half a year earlier or so his bones had ached with every other move, and he had been glad to sit in Rainbase in a comfortable arm chair and not do anything. He had thousands of people to do the dirty work for him, anyway. All he had to do was keep King Cobra and the Alabastans believe he was on their side, and that was politics. Piracy had become a distant, vague idea, nothing more.

Now it was just him and Daz, and for some reason, with the dirty work that came with it, he felt better than before. He didn't feel like old age was catching up to him anymore; actually he felt rather good. Lately, the daily look into the mirror didn't carry the dreadful worry about graying hair, but the knowledge that he had been cunning and strong enough to last this long. It carried pride, and smug determination. He would grin at his reflection before neatly combing back his hair. He left that one lock that always did what it wanted, where it was. No sense in trying to control it. He actually grew to like it.

"Let's head into the New World," he said, smirking as he lit a new cigar and tucked it between his teeth. "There's so much left to accomplish."


End file.
